Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(39)

The city blazes with night lights behind him as he comes back. And the sight of him in those slacks, white shirt, hair rumpled by my fingers, bulldozes through any fear I could have, any tentativeness about doing this. I don’t just want to do this. I never want to stop.

He walks toward me, eyes warm and liquid. He lifts his hand when he reaches me, his gorgeously strong and smooth hand, his fingers slowly caressing my neck.

Pheromones: the delicious scent of him. I swear water is the substance my thighs are made of now, and the rest of me is fire—and Malcolm Saint is the gasoline that’s lighting me up.

My world feels right again as his fingers drag down the front of my body, over my clothes, down my hips, then up my ass, the small of my back, until they come back up to curl around half of my face.

Green eyes capture mine, and I can see the silent question there. And then, I can hear him asking it, his voice pure dry bark. “Slow and deep? Or fast and hard?”

“Both,” I breathe.

He inhales sharply, his jaw clenching at my answer, then he coaxes me closer and, as an affirmative, sets a soft but firm kiss on my lips. “Yeah,” he says.

I hear him unzip my dress and a sigh of gratitude leaves me as he gently pulls it down my body.

“Take me,” I breathe.

“I’m taking you.”

“Use me. Do anything you want to me.”

“No,” he says chidingly. “You use something you discard. And I’ll never be done with you.”

My dress falls in a pool of blue at my feet. I stand motionless as a statue, trembling as the air surrounds me, wearing nothing but my panties and my strappy high-heeled sandals and my heart in my eyes.

Saint kisses my eyelids. As if he sees.

He sees.

Then, he presses his lips to mine as he eases his fingers into my panties, finding my wet folds and playing gently with me. My knees buckle when he touches me; he catches me with one arm and then draws back to stare down at me—the breaths leaving my lips, my face dewy with lust.

His face is harsh with need as he moves his fingers into my wetness, his eyes the most beautiful shade of all, a kaleidoscope of green. When I gasp as he enters me with a finger, a flash of wild lust appears in his eyes. Then there’s the dark black of his pupils growing and growing. And the glimmer of greed—greed for me.

No sooner does another gasp leave me than he kisses me harder, deeper, one instant apart, the next he’s the owner of my mouth, then he’s lifting me up and taking our wet kisses all the way to the bedroom.

“Here you are, Rachel,” he says as if he can’t believe it, and lowers me down on the bed.

“Don’t . . . leave me, just stay,” I curl my legs around his hips and my arms around his shoulders.

He reaches between my thighs and parts my legs a few inches, locates the wet little groove in my panties and rubs a little. His thumb slides, up and down, finds the swelling bud of my clit and rubs in a maddening circle.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice raspy on his throat.

Rasping on my skin.

My answer is one word, “perfect,” my own voice textured with my emotions.

He rubs a little harder.

He’s stroking me with his fingers over my panties as he leans over and nibbles on my lips—an innocent kiss on my lips, but I’m so raw with need, I’m slowly unraveling beneath him.

He reaches between us and tugs my panties down my legs. I’m still wearing my heels and I think they look sexy but Saint tugs one loose, then the other, dropping them to the floor.

“Saint . . .”

God, this man is going to kill me before he gets to actually f*ck me.

He shifts above me, caresses one breast, bending to kiss it, wet and fast. His lips stay there, his hand curving around my hips to the curve of my ass, holding me as he sucks hard.

Pleasure slams me so hard I buck.

He murmurs tenderly, “Easy.” Then he sucks my other nipple gently into his mouth, rolls his tongue over it, then draws it into his mouth again.

I fist the sheets in my hands as the orgasm builds fast and hard, a tension knotting from the core of my body. “Saint, I can’t do foreplay right now.” I tremble beneath him.

“God, I missed you,” he rasps with a happy light in his eye, sliding his fingers up to cup my face, the look on his face so reverent I feel perfect. “You’re like a spark, Rachel, all I need is to breathe on you and you catch fire.”

I’m so undone, I’m a heartbeat away from coming. “Malcolm, please don’t let me do this alone.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” he says, not in the least bit worried as he pulls away to look at me with eyes that have never looked this heavy-lidded. I can’t breathe. I’m gasping, my hands trembling at my sides as he starts to undress.

He strips off his shirt and then his slacks, I feel like I’m dreaming. He’s shedding his clothes until it’s all bare, all for me.

Tan, cut muscles, over six feet of pure testosterone-primed man. His skin feels so smooth and hot and hard when he lowers himself over me.

“Say you want me . . .” he murmurs, and then he dives and sweeps my mouth with his tongue. He twirls and pushes my own tongue with his, showing it where to move, what to taste, where to go . . . with his.

“I want you,” I groan.

Reaching over his muscular shoulders as he settles between my thighs, I curl my legs around his hips and lock my ankles together. He takes my hands and draws them over my head, then he laces his fingers through mine, and drives inside.